


You're What I Couldn't Find

by hubblegleeflower



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, M/M, Meta, characters are real, fic is real, nothing is real, self-aware, some things are realer than others
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-11-04 11:29:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17897594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hubblegleeflower/pseuds/hubblegleeflower
Summary: Stories just sort of...happen. To John, to Sherlock, to everyone they know. It's yet another odd fact of life, that someone somewhere will start to write, and you'll get whisked off to...someplace (not here) until you've played it out. Then your regular life starts up again, and the story fades, and you forget.John knew there was a way for it to happen without them, for them to opt out. Like everyone else, they didn't usually bother, but it was possible. Even easy. No one knew quite how it worked; you just stayed out of that not-quite-real space where fic took place, and it happened...someplace else. Mycroft once let slip that it happened, instead, to another version of you, one that was willing, but that made no sense and John was happier letting it be.





	You're What I Couldn't Find

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Silvergirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silvergirl/gifts).



> This is a gift to Silvergirl, who blesses us all with unfailing and unstinting support and praise and admiration. I promised her a porny one-shot, thinking it would be a quick way to make her happy. Well, it certainly wasn't quick, but I hope it makes her happy. She does the same for me all the time.
> 
>  
> 
> (This only barely earns its explicit rating, but I hope you'll forgive me. I tried everything I could think of, but they kept having _feelings_.)

“Ah, John.” Sherlock was on the sofa in his blue dressing gown, facing away from John, his laptop—no, John’s laptop, of course—open on his chest. He did not look around when John came in; nevertheless John had the impression he’d been waiting for him to come home.

“Hey, Sherlock,” he said, shuffling through the post in his hands. “You been out today?”

Sherlock waved a hand. “I need your help with something.”

“Oh?” John looked up from the mail. “What’s up?” 

Sherlock’s voice was carefully neutral. “She’s trying to write a story again.” 

_Oh._ He peered over to where Sherlock was studiously not meeting his eye. “A story?” he asked. “Or…?”

Sherlock huffed, annoyed. “Fine,” he grumped. “A _fic._ ” His _f_ was wet and toothy, his _c_ thick with disdain. (He used the word as it was the correct term for the context and he liked to be precise, but he objected to neologisms on principle. John wasn’t a huge fan of them either, but he used them considerably more often than he otherwise would have, once he realized how they annoyed his friend.)

“Right. Was kind of hoping it’d be a case.”

“It’s not.”

“Not even a casefic?”

“No.”

“All right, then.” John tossed his sheaf of papers onto the side table and sat down heavily in his chair. “What kind is it, then?”

Sherlock grumbled something unintelligible. 

John sat up, then; mumbling was _not_ Sherlock’s style. “What was that?” he asked.

“A one-shot.” This time with sparkling diction, though John thought the original mutter had been slightly longer.

“A one-shot.” John thought for a moment. “Single chapter, usually a few thousand words…? Is that what she was trying to do yesterday?”

Sherlock shrugged in irritation. “Who _knows_ what she was going for yesterday. That was…”

“Awful.” There was no other word. They’d stood in the kitchen for bloody ages, and _nothing was happening._ It was a bit of a blur by now—they never really remembered these stories for long, particularly the unfinished ones. But neither of them had known what to say and everything they’d done had felt wooden and unnatural. It was a huge relief when she’d given up. “Painful.” 

“Excruciating,” Sherlock agreed. There was a gloomy pause.

“Well,” said John, brightening. “Can’t be worse than that. Any other specifications?”

When Sherlock didn’t answer right away, John looked over and studied him more closely. He had not changed position and there was nothing in his posture that gave him away, but John knew many of his tells by now, and he could see the dip of his chin and the flush on his ears. He began to have certain...suspicions.

“Sherlock,” he prompted. “What else does it say? A one-shot, you said. What kind?”

Sherlock looked up at him, then, scowling fiercely. “A _porny_ one-shot, John. Happy?”

A porny one-shot. John picked up the first envelope on the pile beside him and began to take a very keen interest in it, without actually noticing anything about it at all. The revelation was profoundly shocking and yet—on a completely different level—utterly unsurprising. John wondered vaguely if this had perhaps happened once or twice before...but again, they rarely remembered the stories for long, even the finished ones, so he had no way of knowing. Surprising or not, John had no idea what to say now, so he busied himself with the…uh, credit card offer...he held in his hands, and said nothing at all. 

“What does it _mean_?” Sherlock was not ready to let it lie. “We do _cases._ We solve crimes! You blog about it! What could there possibly be in any of that that would in any way fit that bill?”

“Fit what bill?” Greg Lestrade was just mounting the last step, and it was testament to how unsettled Sherlock was that he’d apparently not noticed the approaching footsteps. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing!” John said quickly.

“Didn’t sound like nothing.” Greg was not actually stupid. “Sherlock looks pretty worked up.”

“I’m not _worked up_ ,” Sherlock snapped. “I just don’t see how this could possibly apply to us!”

“What?” Lestrade looked from Sherlock to John, and back again.

“A one-shot,” John grudgingly supplied.

“A..?” Greg’s face cleared. “Oh, is someone writing a story?”

“A _fic_ ,” said Sherlock, darkly.

“Well?” Greg smiled blandly. “Happens to us all. You’ll hardly remember it tomorrow. What’s the problem?”

A determined silence was his only answer.

But Greg, on top of not being stupid, was a detective, a competent one. While John and Sherlock resolutely avoided his eye, he was able to connect the dots. He began to smile.

Without looking at him, Sherlock said, “Whatever you think you’ve figured out, Detective Inspector, you’re mistaken. Kindly desist.”

“I will _not._ ” Greg’s grin only got wider. “It’s porn, isn’t it. A porny one-shot. That’s what it is.” 

John risked a glance at the older man and immediately wished he hadn’t. If anyone were ever to include the term _shit-eating grin_ in any dictionary, there’d be a picture of Lestrade next to it, looking _just like that._

The next moment, though, John’s brain dredged past his complete mortification and offered him a thought. “Wait a minute,” he said. “What do _you_ know about porny one-shots?”

Greg tapped the side of his nose. “Wouldn’t _you_ like to know,” he said. His smile went vague and, John thought, _goofy._ A horrible thought began to bloom, and he stomped on it as soon as he recognised it.

“No,” he decided, “I wouldn’t.”

“ _I_ would.” Sherlock sat up and twisted around to squint up at Greg. He managed to squint and scowl at the same time. “You’re a police inspector. You’re divorced. You’re not dating anyone, not for six, no, eight months. You only maintain friendships with people who are as manacled to their jobs as you are, and as a result you go weeks and weeks without a social engagement. You’re well into your fifties, and not nearly as fit as you were. What on earth would someone have to write in a porny one-shot about _you?”_

“Well, cheers, Sherlock. Luckily for me, there are a few folks out there with a better imagination than you. And better taste. I get porny one-shotted all the time.”

Sherlock frowned, his nose wrinkling. “Who the hell with?” 

“Sherlock,” John cut in urgently. “Don’t ask!”

“Why not? I certainly can’t think—” Sherlock stopped dead. “Oh god.” 

“How do you know all this, anyway?” John felt the need to redirect this conversation, and quickly. “How do you remember?”

“’S a bit Pavlovian, innit?” he said with a wink. “I don’t remember exactly, but after a while certain key words have something of an...effect. If you know what I mean.”

 _Wow._ That redirection hadn’t helped at all. John pinched the bridge of his nose. He knew better than to wonder if this could get any more uncomfortable; he was sure that it could. And probably would. Anything to do with Sherlock and sex was guaranteed to be awkward. Sherlock never missed a chance to heap scorn on the whole operation and everyone who might want to engage in it, while John stood by, red-faced, sullen, and yearning. (Always yearning.)

“Anyway,” Lestrade said, “I’m just saying, it’s good fun. Won’t be so bad.”

“But it’s completely absurd!” Sherlock looked genuinely upset. 

It was Greg’s turn to frown. “Why?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

It certainly was to John. He stared at his lap and willed this whole conversation to be over. 

But Greg said, “No, it isn’t bloody obvious. I don’t know what you get up to on your own time, but I don’t see the trouble with enjoying something like this if it happens to come your way, even if you think it’s Oh Oh Cee.” He emphasized the abbreviation just enough so that Sherlock would know that yes, he was doing it just to annoy him. Despite his discomfort, John spared him a small quirk of a smile.

“Perhaps you enjoy meaningless sex with any stranger who happens by, _Gerald,_ but some of us are a touch more discerning.”

Greg looked completely baffled. “You think it’d be with a…? Why would it be with a stranger?”

Sherlock looked at him, scathing. “Who else would it be?”

Greg _stared_. He kept his eyes on Sherlock, much longer than usual social norms allowed, apparently waiting for a penny to drop, but John knew better. For all that the idea of having sex—not sex, but sex-in-fic, which was different—with a stranger was distasteful to him, Sherlock could at least conceive of it. But he couldn’t with John. No, John couldn’t even have that much. 

Greg flicked his eyes towards John exactly once. Whatever he saw on John’s face apparently made him finally rethink the whole conversation, as well as his presence in the flat.

“Right.” He cleared his throat. “Well, you’ll be busy. I had something to add to the Matthews file I left you, but what with...look, let’s just...just talk it over tomorrow instead. Good? Good. Good. Okay. Have a good...uh, have—talk to you later.” All the while he was moving towards the door, which he hastily pulled shut behind him as he (finally) stopped talking and just fled.

John did not watch him go. The sting of Sherlock’s rejection was unexpectedly sharp. John kept his eyes on his hands where they lay curled in his lap, grappling with his own hurt. For several moments, the struggle took up all his focus. He didn’t dare look over at Sherlock until he could be sure he didn’t look as miserable as he felt. _As you have no right to feel_ , he chided himself. _He’s never given you cause to hope._

“John.” Sherlock’s voice was strangely soft.

“What.” If John looked up, he would reveal everything. Instead, he revealed everything by not looking up.

“What did he mean? There was something. I’m missing something.” Sherlock always looked to John when he was out of his depth. He looked to him now. He waited, and when John said nothing, he asked, again, “What did he mean? John? Who did he mean?”

 _Whom_ , John thought unkindly. But when Sherlock needed help, John helped him. He cleared his throat. “Me,” he said.

“ _What?_ ”

“He meant me, Sherlock. Could we not belabour the point? He assumed it would be you and me, for all that the, the _pairing_ is so absurd to you that it didn't even cross your mind. Forget it, all right?”

Sherlock was silent for a moment. “She’s going to write it. Yesterday notwithstanding.”

“So? Shut it down. It doesn’t haveto be _you_.” 

There was a way for it to happen without them, for them to opt out. They didn't usually bother, but it was possible. Even _easy_. No one knew how it worked; you just stayed out of that not-quite-real space where fic took place, and it happened...someplace else. Mycroft once let slip that it happened, instead, to another version of you, one that was willing, but that made no sense and John was happier letting it be. “You can just...stay out of it.” That much at least he understood.

“And...you?” Sherlock asked after a pause. “Will you stay out of it?”

John almost looked up at the hesitation in his voice, but caught himself in time. “Dunno,” he said, and then he actually considered the question. His first reaction was _hell no_ , no way he was giving up on the chance (even if it wasn’t real, even if it wasn’t _him,_ even if he wouldn’t remember) of putting his hands on Sherlock’s body, of caressing him and kissing him. Of whispering those words to him that, in reality, he was forbidden to say, forbidden by Sherlock’s every word and gesture. Even knowing that it would fade, and until it faded it would hurt, no, he would not miss this chance. 

Then his conscience kicked in. Sherlock _didn’t want this_. The real Sherlock would never permit this. Even if the Sherlock in the fic were a different Sherlock, one who somehow wanted it... _his_ Sherlock didn’t. So he’d be using that Sherlock as a stand-in, as a sort of, what, rubber doll, to do what the real person would never agree to, and moreover the person he’d be with was not the Sherlock he wanted anyway. _Shit._

“I guess,” he said finally. “If you don’t want to do it.” 

Sherlock looked at him then. That is, he’d been looking over at him on and off for the whole discussion, but John knew without needing to see it the exact moment when the casual glance sharpened, focused. Sherlock _saw_ him then, saw and observed. John scowled down at his hands and awaited his fate.

“If _I_ don’t want to do it.” Sherlock repeated slowly. “The pairing wouldn’t cross _my_ mind.” 

John closed his eyes.

Sherlock said, “It crossed yours.”

 _There it is_. And all at once John was tired of fighting this. Without opening his eyes or raising his head, he answered honestly. “Yeah.”

He could feel Sherlock's gaze drilling into the side of his head. He needed to look up. He had to. In another moment he would. The longer he waited, the more he damned himself, and it was probably, almost definitely, certainly, too late. _Look up, Watson._ A direct order. _Look at him._

John opened his eyes and looked up. 

John didn't know what Sherlock could see in his face, but what he saw in Sherlock's made him catch his breath, and set his heart to pounding in his chest. They stared at each other, and Sherlock's breathing was as unsteady as John's. Distantly it occurred to John that one of them would have to speak, but his voice was stuck in his throat and words were lost to him.

At length, it was Sherlock who spoke. “John. Are you—it did more than cross your mind.”

No sense denying it. “Yeah. You could say that.” John forced a smile, but even he could feel how pained it was. “But you didn't even think of it.”

“That's not—” Sherlock stopped, then took another shaky breath and said, softly, “I've just, just learned not to hope for it.”

“Not to—Sherlock. _Sherlock._ You hate entanglements. You never. You never wanted. _Sherlock_.” John was almost begging. “I thought. You don't want this.”

Sherlock gave a tiny flicker of a smile, a sad one. He said, “I used to think so too, once.”

The silence had a different feel to it now, the silence of an orchestra, poised and ready, waiting for the signal to fill the hall with music. They looked at each other and could feel the shape of the symphony that awaited them.

John, overwhelmed with terrible hope, squeezed his eyes shut. “Be sure,” he pleads. “Be sure you want this. I can't—”

“I do. God, John. I do. I want this.”

Neither of them knew exactly how they crossed the space between them, with the coffee table and the desk to be got around, John trailing junk mail and stray envelopes and slipping on them in his haste, Sherlock toppling his laptop onto the floor and getting tangled in the cord, but whatever mad scramble was needed to get them into each other's arms in the shortest time possible, they got there, and then stood together, breathing hard and each clutching the other's face, eyes searching desperately for some sign that this was real.

 _It's real._ John couldn't say what clue he saw that made him sure, but he had lost too much in his life not to take what gifts he was offered. There was Sherlock's open face looking down at him, there were his wide, imploring eyes, and there, _there_ was his beautiful, devastating mouth, lips wet and parted with the trembling rush of his breath. _Right there._

The next moment they were kissing, and if nothing had ever been real before, this was real. This was real even if it turned out that their whole lives—not just moments of drawing away for the space of a scene or a case or a late-night conversation, but all of it—were merely written and played out in someone’s mind, on page or screen, imaginary. Pain, loss, lies, betrayal, hope, heartbreak...All that could be fiction, and this would still be real.

This was _real_. Sherlock’s lips were warm on his, and gentle, for all the frenzy of their lunge across the room, and the clutching grip of his fingers in John's hair. The contrast of it, the feeling of Sherlock’s shoulders drawn up, his arms taut, his whole body propelling itself into this kiss, even his jaw locked and clenched, while his lips were soft, sweet, taking in John’s mouth in a slow, deliberate press-and-taste, savouring. For all the recklessness of this embrace, Sherlock kissed him carefully, as if kissing John...mattered. 

It mattered to John too. John met the press of his lips with his own purposeful kisses, firm and full and _real._

Their hearts were in these kisses; John was not even trying to hold back the surge of emotion that was cascading into it, and Sherlock met him wave for wave. _Sentiment_ , John thought distantly, and would have laughed. Sentiment was a meagre word for this; this was their souls embracing.

Souls it may have been, but with this flowering of feeling, something in John’s body was also blossoming. He barely noticed it in the din of _kissing Sherlock_ , but then their bodies straightened and their arms wrapped round to pull each other close, and their chests met, and their bellies, and _oh._

Sherlock wrenched his mouth free. “John,” he gasped, and stared at him, eyes wide and darting, searching John’s face. His breath came quick and erratic.

It was shocking for John as well but he wanted it, he _wanted it_ , he didn’t want to lose it. “I know, I know, but please. Please don’t—” John didn’t know what he was asking, what he was saying, but he wasn’t letting go. “Come back, please, god, Sherlock, come—” He could hear his own voice, knew he was not making sense. He stumbled into silence, but held on tight with both arms. He met Sherlock’s eyes and let him read it in his face.

Sherlock’s worried frown resolved into a brilliant smile.

“John,” he said. “Yes.”

When they came back together, it was with just as much deeply felt emotion, but overlaid now with pure desire. There was no shyness, nothing tentative, no sense that this was new, unknown, to be treated with caution. No, his mouth _belonged_ on Sherlock’s, his tongue was made to slide across his lips and into his mouth and his hands to run along the whole length of his spine, to trace the muscles of his shoulders and to curl under the round weight of his buttocks, and when Sherlock’s hands travelled in their turn, and caressed his sides, that was only as it should be, and when they pressed their bodies together so that each could feel the hard evidence of the other’s desire, that too was only...right.

Right, and also staggering, and also—as they gasped apart at the intense shock of arousal—unspeakably _hot._

“Sherlock,” John managed on a groan, letting his head fall back and raising his mouth again, all but demanding to be kissed.

Suddenly, he found himself thrown off-balance, as Sherlock wrapped him in a strong embrace, fastened his mouth on John’s shoulder, and propelled them both across the room, to thump John’s back against the door. When John's brain caught up, Sherlock had him flat against the worn wooden surface, his elbows on either side of John’s head and the backs of his hands just barely brushing John’s face, caging him with his body and _devouring_ him with his eyes. 

A small part of John's mind objected to being manhandled, _dominated_ like this. A larger part of him was thankful to have the solid support of the door at his back, because having Sherlock breathing in the scent of him and looking at him like, like—like _that_ , was making his legs actually weak. 

He succumbed, of course he did. No one could push John around, not even Sherlock, unless John wanted them to—and apparently he wanted it from Sherlock, because without having asked his brain for its advice, his cock was now fully hard in his trousers. 

Sherlock: looking hungry, one beat, two beats, breathing the air that John was panting out, looking at John’s wide eyes that hid nothing, John was sure, none of his breathlessness or shining need. John looked back, having given over all control, his mouth wet and wanting, waiting to be claimed.

Then Sherlock claimed him, and it was glorious: face in hands and tongue in mouth and body crushing his onto the unmoving door behind him, Sherlock’s erection prominent against John’s body. His mouth, his mouth was everywhere, on John’s face and along his jaw and buried in his neck, licking and biting, with only John’s skin to muffle his groans. 

Sherlock said, _“John,”_ from inside the collar of John’s shirt, and his voice—John had never heard his voice sound like that before—and he pulled Sherlock tight to his body to try to surrender _more._ And Sherlock took his surrender with both hands curled around John's shoulders, and moved so that one thigh was pressed to John’s erection, and John moaned, John _moaned_ , and his knees went lax, so that he was held up by little more than Sherlock’s grip on his shoulders and the thigh against his cock.

Sherlock drew away and looked down at John, and his face was flushed and wild. “I’ve wanted...John. This is.” He stroked his thumbs over John’s face, ghosting them over his mouth. Placed a kiss there. “It feels like it can’t be real.”

“It is, it’s real,” said John, sliding one hand up Sherlock’s back to weave into his hair. He felt the softness of his curls, and caught his fingers on a tangle. _Warm,_ he thought nonsensically. He said, again, “It’s real,” and pulled him down into a kiss.

 _Hands_. How many times had John thought, _if I could only get my hands on him…_? And now they were, and he was free to explore. He put his hands on Sherlock’s waist, to feel the leanness of his flanks: he could, now. He could slide his hands up under his dressing gown to play across the span of his shoulders, feel their strength and their tension under the rich weave of his dress shirt, _like this,_ or palm along the curve of his lower back, and feel just the start of where his spare lines softened, rounded. It felt as good as he always knew it would.

It was, it was— _stop thinking, god, stop thinking._ The doubts just would not be silenced. Sherlock was kissing him, Sherlock was _pinning him to the wall_ , Sherlock’s thigh was hard up between John’s trembling legs, very deliberately pressing on John’s cock, and still John was wondering what was allowed. 

“Everything.” Sherlock drew away enough to gasp a hurried breath and speak. “Everything, John, I want—” He cut himself off and looked at John’s face, really _looked,_ and John looked back. 

Sherlock’s face was _glowing._ He was looking at John like John was _Christmas._ This look—had he ever seen this look on Sherlock’s face? This was the smile for a brilliant case, or a dangerous plan, or, or, John didn’t know what else it was for, this elated, delighted, _beaming_ smile, the look of a Sherlock who was simply, brilliantly,unutterably _happy_. It certainly couldn't be for John, that smile. No. But there was Sherlock, letting his warm gaze travel over John’s face as if every line and every fold was pleasing to him, as if having John there under his eyes and in his hands was the one thing that had been lacking for him, and now he had it, and could be glad, simply, to have it. 

Joy was there, and desire, and a deep, blooming arousal that burned in his face and in the grip of his fingers on John’s shoulders. Seeing it, John’s doubts evaporated. He gave a faint smile.

“Yeah?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Sherlock said. “And now can we please stop thinking?”

Half a grin and half a nod from John, and they were kissing again, and this time it was not Sherlock pushing and John yielding, but both of them reaching, grasping. At last, at _last_ John let his hands continue their smooth slide down Sherlock’s back to dig his fingers into the firm flesh of his arse. At last he kissed down from Sherlock’s beautiful mouth to nip at his neck, to taste the thin skin there, to burrow under his ear and breathe in the smell of him. At last he pressed his body forward to feel, with his own chest, the flexing, solid resistance of Sherlock’s ribcage. At last he did not merely accept the push of Sherlock’s thigh against his groin, but ground down on it with a good will, groaning out his arousal.

“Christ, Sherlock, you, you, you—” _You feel good_ , but John couldn’t get it out because Sherlock’s hands had run down his body to grab his hips and rock him even harder on his leg, and it felt so— 

“ _John._ ” Sherlock’s voice was ragged. 

Because there was Sherlock’s erection firm against John’s hip and _oh god, he’s hard, he’s hard, I want,_ and a shift of John’s hip gave Sherlock something to rut on and _Christ,_ the deep groan that wrung out of Sherlock’s mouth sent such a spike of response through John’s whole body that he thought he might just come right there, fully dressed and thrusting on the muscle of his thigh.

“Sherlock, I want—” John brought his hands up to the top button of Sherlock’s grey shirt, kissing him hard as he undid button after button until the shirt hung open under the dressing gown, framing the beautiful smooth skin of his torso. John pushed at Sherlock, only a little, so he could see him properly, and took a moment to look his fill.

Only a moment, though, because everything he wanted was set before him, for him to touch and taste and have, and looking—though wonderful—was nowhere near enough. 

He kissed him; his body was beautiful and real and _right there_ and what else could he do? He pressed his mouth to Sherlock’s breastbone, lay three kisses there, one below the other. Moving to the side he discovered the way hard bone became lean muscle, giving way a little to the press of his lips. Down around the curve of his pectoral the texture of his skin changed again, satiny smooth turning abruptly ridged and pebbled under his mouth as he lipped and nibbled and sucked. Remembering his hands, John raised them to Sherlock’s waist, fascinated by the way his firm, spare frame—all planes and angles—should still feel soft and yielding to his touch. 

He couldn’t get enough, could hardly stand for his mouth and hands to not be touching Sherlock’s body. Distantly he realized that Sherlock was trying to undo his shirt in return but it did not cross his mind to help; his hands were busy, and his mouth was hungry. At last Sherlock dipped his head and captured John’s mouth with his, and then John hardly noticed Sherlock’s fingers working at the buttons of his shirt until he, too, was bare-chested.

Sherlock straightened, then, and brought John up and away from the door at his back, and now there was room for them to wrap their arms around each other and _squeeze_. At the heart of the embrace, their bodies, their chests met, skin to skin, and John was lost, again, because the _warmth_ of the man was so...real. John could not stop thinking that word. They held each other tightly, lips still pressed together, and breathed, and breathed. Sherlock had muscles, and lungs, and a ribcage, _of course he did,_ but John could feel them all along his body as he breathed there and the awareness stalled him for a bit: _Sherlock’s body_.

Sherlock's _prick_. Sherlock had a prick, had an erection that he could feel, hard, against his belly, mirrored precisely by the hardness in John’s trousers. It was almost uncomfortable, no, it _was_ uncomfortable, and John could be distracted by the taste of a long-desired mouth or the feel of smooth skin for a while, but his cock was full and hard and he _wanted_ him; the desire was cresting, and would not be ignored for long.

They stepped apart, briefly, and held each other’s eye, mouths parted and chests heaving. By some unspoken agreement, their hands move to the waists of their own trousers. John fumbled with the buckle of his belt—his hands weren’t working well, and he did not want to look away from Sherlock’s face, so he worked by feel.

Sherlock, though, had looked away from John’s face and was apparently riveted by the sight of John’s hands unbuckling his belt and releasing the button of his flies. His own hands had stilled, he’d only got as far as unhooking the fastening of his trousers, and he watched, avidly, while John’s hands worked at his jeans. 

John got as far as lowering his zipper before Sherlock lost patience completely. He batted John’s hands out of the way, parting the fabric of his jeans and reaching into the soft cotton of his pants, and John had only a split second to realise what Sherlock had in mind before he felt the touch of Sherlock’s fingers.

It was electric. It was _explosive,_ and John shouted at the first brush of that hand. _It’s so good, it’s so good,_ it was _so good,_ and John fell back again onto the door, unable to get a full breath or support his own weight unaided.

They were so close together. So close, with John’s back resting again on the old green door and Sherlock’s right hand slow and easy on his cock. With his left hand, he reached behind John’s neck and curled his fingers into the short hair at his nape. He brought John’s head towards him and pressed their foreheads together. John looked at his face and saw that Sherlock’s eyes were fixed on his own hand, moving on John’s prick, as if he couldn’t look away. 

Sherlock stroked, stroked. His grip was firm, not hard but steady, unwavering, working towards its goal. The rising tides of pleasure took all of John’s attention so that when he realised Sherlock was talking, he wondered distantly when he had begun. Even once he noticed, it was hard for him to make out the words; whispered exclamations and endearments, perhaps, _good_ and _yes_ and _oh god_ and _John_ and words of such affection as John never expected to hear from Sherlock at all, ever, about anyone, least of all John himself, so that he could not quite believe he was hearing them at all. The string of words kept coming, but at times it was just his mouth, his lips working and moving at John’s temple, as if trying to kiss him but unable to coordinate. All the while his hand was steady and unrelenting on John’s cock, and John was lost, was completely incoherent, eyes tight shut and breathing erratic as his climax rose and rose within him.

And then Sherlock tightened the fingers on John’s neck, gave a clever twist on the upstroke, and whispered, “It’s always you, John,” and John gave a soft cry, and came into his hand. 

The pleasure that shuddered through him was so much more than physical. He came, and gasped, and came, and somewhere in the middle of it he opened his eyes and saw Sherlock’s hand cradling him, smeared with his come, and the sight of it was so beautiful it almost hurt.

Over the course of the next several breaths, he settled. Sherlock tucked him back into his clothes while John managed to form the thought _Sherlock brought me off, I just came for Sherlock,_ and let his vision clear. When he blinked and focused back on Sherlock’s face, he could see the same wonder reflected there. Sherlock’s lips were parted and his eyes, usually so sharp and inquisitive, were stunned and—he saw with some shock—a little wet. There was a moment where they stared at each other before John became aware that the flush on Sherlock’s face was one of arousal. 

_Of course it was_. And he wanted John, wanted John to touch him, to bring him off. _Incredible._ John wasted no more time, but reached across and opened Sherlock’s trousers. He took Sherlock’s unabated erection in his hand, and it was _gorgeous,_ it was _fascinating,_ wasn’t it, that Sherlock got hard, like other men, like John did, and what was more, he got hard _because of John._ Not only hard, but flushed and heavy and glistening. _Wet._ John’s mouth watered at the sight.

He slid down the door and came to rest on his knees, taking Sherlock’s erect penis into his mouth on the way down, in one smooth motion, and felt the slide of him across his tongue with something like relief. He closed his eyes and let out a grateful breath into the warm, musky hair of Sherlock’s groin.

The smell of him washed over John, animal and masculine and so, so human. And the _taste_ , it filled his senses, salty and slippery. He never stopped to think _how do I do this_ ; there was no time. He had to get the taste of Sherlock all through his mouth, inside his cheeks and onto his tongue and between his lips, and he had to bury his face as deep as he could between his thighs, and breathe only that scent. He sucked and swallowed around Sherlock's hot prick, again and again, chasing the thick fluid, slick, that seeped from the tip, _more_ , he wanted more, slid his hands around to grip Sherlock's arse and pull his body closer and his cock deeper, to lick and suck and taste, ignoring his watering eyes and the ache in his jaw, and he hadn't had anywhere near enough when the flesh between his lips swelled and stiffened even further and John found his mouth full of as much taste and heat and texture as he could want. He swallowed it down and sucked the last drops out, determined not to waste the chance to flood himself with Sherlock, Sherlock _, Sherlock,_ beautiful and intoxicating and so, so precious.

It was some time before either of them spoke. John sat back on his heels and licked his own lips clean. He folded Sherlock's pants back up over his penis and tugged his zipper up a little way, and Sherlock lowered himself, stiffly, to the floor. They sat side by side, shoulder to shoulder, leaning on the door and staring blindly at the windows, while their breathing and heartbeats slowed and steadied.

“So, uh,” John said, finally, “Yeah, it did, it crossed my mind.”

Sherlock huffed a startled laugh. “Yes,” he said. “Mine, too.”

Both smiling now, they turned to look at each other, and a soft, fond look passed between them. The depth of joy John could read in Sherlock's face made him feel warm deep in his chest. To think, they had both been wanting this, they had both been wishing... and they would never have known, but for…

“Shit!” John sat up. “The one-shot!”

“Oh,” said Sherlock, sounding...a little at a loss. “Yes.”

“Yeah, I was a little distracted too.” They grinned at each other, and let another moment pass in silence.

At length, John spoke again. “So...does this mean we'll do it?” The thought didn't please him as much as he expected it would.

Sherlock didn't answer right away. “I suppose. If.”

“If?”

“If you want to.” 

Did John want to? To allow himself to be drawn aside, into the realm of fic, of, of _story._ Fiction. With Sherlock. And play out some...encounter. A sexual encounter. _You just_ had _a sexual encounter._ Yes, but...this one wouldn't be up to them. It would be only one time. It wouldn't even be real.

And by tomorrow, they would have forgotten that it had even happened. 

“No,” John said, surprising himself. “No, let's not.”

“You don't want to?” Sherlock didn't sound...upset, exactly. He didn't sound happy either.

John thought for a moment. “I don't want to just...do it, and then forget it. I only ever want this to be real.”

“This?” Sherlock didn't meet his eye.

“Yeah, this. Us. Touching you. Having—loving you.” Well? It was true.

“John.”

“Any time I get to touch you. I want to remember, every time. I only want it to be real, Sherlock. It's really fucking real, okay? I want to keep it that way.”

Sherlock looked at him then, his smile little more than a softness to his mouth, and perhaps something in his eyes, too. Peace, maybe. “Okay,” he agreed.

***

When they felt the pull, a few minutes later, that strange, half-imagined tug of the fic being written, it was the easiest thing in the world, to just...not. They let the feeling wash over them, past them, and John felt the precise moment when the choice passed away from him to...some other version of him. Some other John who wanted this, and some other Sherlock. 

Sherlock felt it too. They let it pass, and then John rose, creakily, to his feet and offered Sherlock a hand as well. Once on their feet, they kissed once, and made their way down the hall to the bedroom.

***

Much, much later, worn out and sated and drifting lazily to sleep on Sherlock's chest, John had a hazy thought that made him startle himself awake with a laugh.

“What is it?” came Sherlock's sleepy voice.

“Greg,” he answered.

“Mmm?”

“Greg,” he repeated. “Happens to him so often he almost remembers.”

“So?” Sherlock really was nearly asleep.

“So,” John said, with another little laugh. “He must be the version that always says yes. For all the other Gregs.”

Sherlock did chuckle, then. “We'll have to tell him,” he murmured.

“Tell him what?” John asked.

“That he should make it real,” he said, around a yawn. “It's better when it's real.”

“Yeah,” said John, “It is.” He settled his head back under Sherlock's chin, and went to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Dreams by the Cranberries


End file.
